


Prosthesis Annoyance

by LetMeEntertainYou



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Amputation, Amputee, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 20:21:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18818305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetMeEntertainYou/pseuds/LetMeEntertainYou
Summary: Every day. Every goddamn day, somebody had to say something, do something, that put into question his independence. People wanted to baby him. People wanted him to feel like a victim. People wanted Roger to acknowledge that he was actually incapable, which he wasn’t.





	Prosthesis Annoyance

**Author's Note:**

> My blog is Disabled-Queen-HC on tumblr.  
> Anon asked:roger with a prosthetic hand. people think that just because someone has a prosthetic hand it means you can’t drum or have independence. (fluff is not required but very welcomed)

Roger stared at his stump, eyebrows furrowed. The skin was pale and raised, byproducts of the scars that healed nearly a decade ago. The skin under the amputation site was red and irritated, a fact of life he’d have to deal with. While his prosthesis didn’t bother him quite like the ones in his youth (Leather and sweat do  **not** go together), modern prostheses still made his skin angry.

With a sigh, he used a warm and dampened wash cloth to cleanse his skin after a long day of wearing his hand. His eyes fluttered shut, the water feeling like a godsend on his aching wrist. 

It also felt like a relief not to have the damn thing on. It was thoughtlessly strewn on the bathroom sink, seemingly eyeing him with malice.

Roger ignored it, continuing his night time routine. Sanitizing his stump before lotioning it up.

Well, ignoring it was easier said than done. This mindless task left him with a lot of time to think. About his day, about the people he interacted with, how they reacted to him.

_Bunch of bullshit._

He accidentally pumped down too hard on the soap bottle, the gel squirting everywhere. He groaned but his mind wandered back to his angering thoughts.

“ _Oh sir, let me open the door for you_ ,” A stranger would say.

Roger would decline, fully capable of opening a bloody door for himself.

“ _Do you need help with that_?” A woman would ask, looking at the bags he had in his hand.

Did he look like he was struggling? He’d shoo her off.

A man would come up and say how brave he was for still drumming with only one hand. 

“ _Doesn’t seem very brave to me_ ,” he’d mutter under his breath.

Every day. Every goddamn day, somebody had to say something, do something, that put into question his independence. People wanted to baby him. People wanted him to feel like a victim. People wanted Roger to acknowledge that he was actually incapable, which he  ** _wasn’t_**.

He let out a growl, the lotion bottle slipping from his grip.

All because he didn’t have a hand. Sure, was life a little harder? Of course. But he wasn’t in a fucking coma. He could very well handle himself and do things for himself. He had adapted after all these years. He was fine. He was fine! Why couldn’t anyone see that He. Was. Fine!

He was seconds away from throwing his prosthesis out the bathroom window when Brian walked in, hearing all the ruckus.

“What’s the matter, Rog?” He asked, taking in the sight before him. Roger was red in the face, heaving, prosthetic hand in his shaking hand. He took a step forward, placing a calming hand on the blond’s shoulder.

Roger felt embarrassed for being caught, not that he was trying to be quiet anyways, but he still felt angry.  _Irate_ , actually.

“This stupid, bloody thing!” He screeched, holding up the plastic limb. “I can’t be normal with it on and I can’t be normal with it off!”

Oh, he had tried. Maybe the awkward, clunky hand is what threw people off, so he’d go out without it on. It hardly made a difference, besides receiving more stares. Even making kids cry.

“I’m tired of it! I’m tired of people thinking I’m lesser because of it! I don’t need any damn help! I don’t want it! Leave me alone!” he yelled, eyes welling with tears.

Brian just nodded, understanding what Roger was saying. He saw the struggles Roger faced because of his amputation. Funny thing was, the majority of them were caused by people who didn’t understand or refused to, not because he lacked a hand.

He could see the toll it took on his boyfriend, having to answer the same questions day in and day out. The excuses and lies he’d have to tell to be left alone. Nothing broke his heart more than seeing Roger struggle because of those around him.

“I know, love, I know,” he said softly, hoping to deescalate the other’s rage. He pulled Roger into a hug, but Roger stayed rigid.

“I’m so sorry you have to go through this. I know it’s rough, I do. I wish I could take it all away from you. But, you’re so strong. You handle it with such pride. Such dignity. I wonder how you do it,” Brian whispered into Roger’s ear, hands slowly rubbing circles into his back. Roger only grew more tense.

“But…it’s okay to be mad. You have every right to be upset. You know that, right?” Brian said.

Roger went limp, falling into Brian’s arms. “ _I am mad_ ,” he said through the tears. 

Brian held onto him tightly, nodding. “You are allowed to be mad,” he echoed.

Brian held on for what felt like hours. Until Roger came down from his fit. He was able to finish his bedtime routine, this time with Brian’s gentle touch and kind words.

This wasn’t the end of Roger’s fight with the public. It’d be something that plagued him for the years to come. But at least attitudes were slowly changing. And at least he knew he was allowed to be aggravated. There’d be no more bottling up emotions. No more rages at 11pm. 

He may not have a hand but at least he had that.


End file.
